Soul Force
by Mamanator
Summary: Follow the early training years of a handful of new Maesters and Weapons as they learn how to wield and hone their craft. This story will be told in four parts. Book One will focus on the Soul Battle and then be followed up with three more books heading towards the final conflict. Rated T for language and mild violence.
1. Prologue I

_**SOUL FORCE  
**_

**Prologue**

**I**

The desert's red sand flooring was pristine. Its untouched acreage sprawled out for miles in all directions, broken only by the low lying greenery and brush which dotted the landscape and served as homes to hordes of desert dwelling creations. The tallest of these nature-made abodes stood no more than four feet above the ground. These pygmae yuccas stood proud among its neighboring brush with its bright green leaves prickling outward from each branch. Their flowers had long since bloomed and died but the dwarf trees continued to reach beneath the soil, spreading their roots far and wide, taking footing and remaining strong against the elements in which they grew. Here those animals with flight take refuge from those that slither and lie in wait on the dusty floor below.

In the distance a cloud of dust emerges from nowhere announcing the approach of something as of yet unseen by the inhabitants. They can feel the earth quake beneath them and feel the ever so slight change in the air around and above them. Something is coming. Something fast.

The wisest of the creatures take wing and those that can't take refuge beneath the sage or within the hollowed out ruts of low lying cacti and the yucca. They don't yet know the nature of what approaches but their senses begin to first tingle then scream at them to flee. Those that can… do. Those that can't use their cleverly designed camouflage provided by nature and try to make themselves as small targets as possible while they make themselves still as stone.

The black-tailed jack rabbit scuttles both here and there towards its burrow, zig-zagging across the dusty bed of the desert in a feeble attempt to outwit whatever manner of creature was encroaching on their docile territory. With its peaceful and mostly well hidden burrow hole in sight, the animal sprints quickly towards the welcoming front door. Its sprint was without success as the unseen and unheard arrow sped its way towards the beautiful animal's demise, piercing it below the left ear and came jutting out in front of the right. The animal was dead before it came to a stop just mere inches from safety.

Never breaking pace, the sun-kissed beige charger deftly strode aside the fresh kill, aptly missing the hide with its thunderous hooves, allowing its mount to scoop the prey up with the sharpened tip of its long bow. Quickly they continued on their way toward an unseen destination.


	2. Prologue II

**II**

In a darkened and ruined cavern buried several feet beneath the earth's surface a hag stood careful watch over a boiling cauldron set atop a fire made of burning logs and blackened charcoal. The steam from the pot's contents swirled above the lip and engulfed the woman in a smoky hue. Her brittle, blonde hair lay limp beneath the cloak's hood she always wore when working her magics. The strands that fell forward clung to her cheeks and lay limp in curled strands on the front of her dark cloak. Her face was smeared with soot and wet with sweat. The underground cavern was always baking, but with the cauldron ablaze the temperature was above sweltering. It was most uncomfortable, even for a seasoned professional such as herself, but it was unavoidable. The signs had been showing for days. The time to act was near past and she needed the direction; the answers. While she had preferred to use the cauldron above ground she knew her work was too important to leave to chance. Eyes saw all above ground but only the skilled could read beneath the surface and penetrate rock. This cavern was ideal and her magics protected her location and goings-on like the cloak on her back protected her from the elements. No. It would not prove wise to work her magics above ground and so she stole herself miles below the surface wherever chance afforded itself. It was bad enough this location had taken long to find. The signs had been appearing for days. Nay, weeks, and it took her this long to find a safe and secure place to work. The heat would just be something she'd deal with. Best to deal with the heat then the spying eyes of… no! She berated herself for even going there. This was not the time to worry over such matters. Her work was too important. Too vital.

One ingredient at a time she made her magics. It didn't matter if the pestilence she wielded struck out at her. Beneath her cloak and under the protection of her magics she would not fall victim to spider bites or rodents claws. She braved their retaliation knowing it would do them no good as she flung their soon to be corpses into the boiling stew before her. In her native tongue she spoke the verses her mother had taught her and her mentor had drilled into her.

Years before today, she never would have been able to utter a single word of what she needed to say now. Such was the purpose of her servitude over the past many years. Now, the Bruja was her native tongue and speaking the Common Tongue, when she needed, was the foreign language that left her tongue-tied and vulnerable to detection. Her accent never gave her away; it was always her poor choice of words. So it was that her mentor had taught her, through multiple difficult lessons, that silence truly was golden and her most beloved tool of the trade. The "trade" being survival and the "tool" more of a trick; but what was that to her? She could have not helped being born into this lifestyle any more than those commoners who scorned her. It was a hard life, but it was her life, and she would be damned to ignore it or be forced from it. Now, she was smarter. Now, she was capable. Now, she was a force of her own. Gods pity the commoner who sought to do her harm now.

Over her long life, she had even conceded to aid a commoner or two along the way. She was, after all, not without a heart. Her price, true to be told, was steep. But if a commoner was willing or able to pay she'd oblige their desire. What else was there for her to do during the long hours of day and night and night and day? All her life she'd been told to watch and be patient. Yet, in between the waiting and listening, why shouldn't she involve herself in the world about her? What better way to watch and be patient than being able to interact and understand one's surroundings? That was what she had told herself, had convinced herself long ago when her mother and her mentor had long left her.

The fire's heat and the cauldron's steam did not bother her. They were a welcoming necessity and she knew that they would aid in the answers she sought. With the embers beneath the metal pot bright and the white steam seeping into her pores she took the ceremonial blade from its sheath beneath her cloak. In her left hand she held it over the stew and spoke the words. She thrust the blade into the pot and waited, baiting her breath, counting slowly as she had long ago been taught. When she reached the right length of time she withdrew the sharp steel, brought it to her lips, kissed it like a lover's wrist, and then held it, once more, over the pot. This time she also extended her right arm. The cloak's sleeve had already been rolled up before she had begun and her arm, bare and stretched over the cauldron, waited. The hot steam enveloped the bare arm and turned the skin to a fine shade of pink. Uttering in her native tongue she brought the blade to skin and slowly pulled it from right to left mid arm beneath the crook.

She did not cry out. She did not wince. The blood flowed free from its housing and fell in a steady line into the cooking stew below. Only when the contents began to bubble did she withdraw her arm, house the blade back into its scabbard, and hold her arm upright so that the blood flow would cease. She then looked, unblinking, into the cauldron. Watching patiently, just as she had been taught all those years ago, the witch was still as a statue.

Time meant nothing as she stood there silently. After a fashion, it happened. Simultaneously she smiled as her eyes grew wide with wonder and understanding. Patience, a voice somewhere deep within her said, is a virtue.


	3. Prologue III

**III**

Things just weren't working out. All the precautions they had taken, all the preparations they had taken pains to ensure were completed and ready and none of it mattered. What was it his sister had joked about? Best laid plans of mice and men. And here they were now… all their plans and none of it mattered because everything had gone to hell in a hand basket and then some.

Six years, he scolded himself. Six years they had waited for this very moment and now it was going to be ruined and stolen away from them. How could such horrible things happen to two very good people? Hadn't they always done everything they could? Donate their time and money? Been charitable and did their civic duties? They lived modestly in a rural suburb and maintained mediocre jobs and lives. Living under the radar was what they aimed for and, until now, John had thought that they had done a good job of it. Only, somewhere, they must have shone too brightly. How else could it be explained that what was happening now, what usually happened to someone else, was happening to them? It wasn't fair. It simply wasn't fair. "Gods," he cried out in a gasped choke filled with sorrow, "if you take this from me and pass it to someone else… anyone else… I swear!" And his sobs broke his voice as he fell to his knees in utter grief and let his head fall into his hands. "Ask anything else of me I beg you! Don't allow this to happen! Not to us! Not to them!"

If he had expected God's own angels to come to him in that moment he was wholly disappointed. John allowed himself the cry he needed before rubbing the tears and snot from his face with the back of his hand. With the same hand he used the kitchen counter to pull himself back onto his feet and he turned towards the archway from where he had entered. He should go, he knew. He should go to them. Julie would need him. He'd have to be strong for her now. But who, he wondered, would be strong for him? It wasn't fair, he thought angrily. Women always had men at their backs. Men had feelings too. They had needs. They also had moments. It wasn't fair that this could not be his.

At the front door there was an urgent knock. "Finally!" John spat as he raced towards the door. Flinging it open, relief filled him as the paramedics cursorily nodded as they entered. "She's in the back bedroom," he heard himself say, as if from somewhere far away. "Please," that male voice begged, "you have to help them…."

As quickly as they had entered the house they were off towards the real trouble in the back bedroom. Once again, John felt himself alone and felt the dark thought of how women always had someone come to them while the man was left to his own devices. It just wasn't fair, that dark part of him thought. Yet, as quickly as he thought it, the thought was pushed away and he found himself running after the paramedics who had rushed after his wife and still born child.

The guest bedroom in the back of the house was filled to capacity with the paramedics, the midwife, his mother-in-law, sister, and his wife. Julie had long passed out, either from the pain or the emotion John was not certain. For an instant his heart went out to her, but it was just an instant. After which his eyes found the infant, lying atop some soiled towels on the top of the bureau against the far wall by the bay window. Julie had loved that window because it opened to their backyard which was more of a wooded acre. Just beyond the line of sight, hidden behind the tree line, was the brook Julie adored painting. Often she spoke of taken their child down to the stream to learn to appreciate the water. Julie never said she'd teach their child to swim; it was always about the appreciation. She wanted to teach their child to appreciate the earth, appreciate life and appreciate the finer, littler, things in life. Repeatedly she expressed this to John so he'd understand it wasn't just about learning how to do something or how to be somebody; it was about appreciating what we had and what we could become. Sometimes John found her totally exhausting. Other times he found her completely endearing.

Voices filled the overcrowded bedroom and John saw the tubes and wires going into not only his beloved wife but his dead baby. He was at a loss. Why would they be sticking the baby? Wrap it up and remove it, for the love of God! He felt himself about to speak out to them, demand that they remove the dead thing, when the voice of one of the attending paramedics broke him. "We have it! We have a heart beat!"

_Impossible!_ John thought. _It was dead! I felt it for myself! I slapped its bare bottom and it just lay there._ He was about to ask them if they were sure when it happened. A bright, blue light filled the room. It blinded him and he shielded his eyes with his arms. "What the…" he exclaimed in total surprise. Before he could finish his sentence he was cut off. Not by the sudden dissipation of the light but by the cries of a baby. His baby. It was a glorious sound and he felt himself filled with the light that, not moments before, had filled the small back bedroom.


	4. Chapter One Part I

**One**

**I**

The city was immense! In all her eleven years, she had never seen something so vast and bright. Skyscrapers broke the cloud banks, railways and paved roads dissected the heart of the city connecting the outskirts to the inner depths. There was so much to see Risca feared that if she blinked she would surely miss something. Vibrant colors lit the skyline as the sun touched the otherwise plain façade of the buildings. Flower beds and buds in trees blossomed in ornate colors the like she'd never known existed. Her father had tried to prepare her for the greatness of the city but not even the stories she had been told as a child could properly set her to comprehend its enormity. It was both beautiful and ominous at the same time. She had read many digests on architecture to gain a better understanding, but the city seemed to be made up of so many different types of structures that she could not pinpoint a single style nor find one that she liked better than the others.

In her hands, she grasped tightly at the duffel bag strap, fearful that should she loose her grip on it, all that she owned would be lost in the cities greatness. Crumbled in her clenched fists was the map to the city that her father had bought for her at the Southern Outpost where they had to bid each other farewell. Risca was relieved when she was able to turn her back, tear free, and take the walk into Urbis Mortem on her own. She was safe now. Once inside the city limits, there was no crime and there was no reason for fear. Yet she couldn't help but to be overwhelmed and a bit uncertain that the too-large-for-her duffel bag, which contained all the worldly possessions she now had left to possess, would become separated from her. In her front jeans pocket, she kept the most important papers of all but that did not lessen the value of what she had packed up from her previous home, her previous life, and brought with her.

Now, she set the bag down on the ground and carefully placed both her feet inside the straps. She did this so that, should the bag want to wander from her person, it would not be possible without first tripping her up and alerting her to some unimaginable danger her father had told her would not exist within the city limits. Next, she placed the wrinkled map on her stomach and used both hands to flatten it out as best she could. "You. Are. Here," she said as she found the red star which marked the gate she had passed through not five minutes earlier. Looking behind her, she saw the traffic flow going beyond the wall more readily than coming in. Security was tight within the city and it gave her a little peace of mind. Still, it was the first expedition she'd been on where she was officially on her own. The butterflies within her took full advantage of this knowledge and tried to give her pause and make her turn back.

"No!" she chided herself quietly, but severely. "You will not be over there," she told herself. "You are here. Here you will stay. And here…" she began as she studied the map, tracing the route her father had laid out for her to follow, "… is where you must go now." Looking up she found the street signs, studied them against the route on the map her father had inked in, and gave herself a reassuring nod. This time she folded the map, put it into the other front pocket of her faded blue jeans, picked up the duffel bag once more and walked, awkwardly holding the bag to her left in both hands as she did so.

While the streets and sidewalks were packed with people from all walks of life Risca paid them little heed. This turned out to be the same amount of heed they paid her. She was fine with that, though. It gave her time and space to drink in the highlights of the city and keep her wits and bearings about her. Back home was so very different from where she now found herself. She had thought home was a conglomerate but it paled in comparison to Urbis Mortem. In Morse code, Blythe would be the dot and Urbis Mortem the slash. The two places were so completely different that they seemed to be foreign to each other. In truth that was how Risca was feeling. Like a foreigner.

The star of the city, where her feet now led her, was oddly enough on the eastern outskirts of the city. When she had asked her father why they couldn't travel to the eastern gateway he had chuckled and tousled her hair. "When you get there my little Risca," he told her, "you will understand." They had parted just before the sun had reached its zenith and now it was beginning its decent again as she had found her way to the Eastern Wall. Though her feet hurt, she found herself renewed by its enormity and she understood what her father had meant. The Eastern Wall opened onto the sea port and ran the length all the way to the Northern Gates. There was no entry into Urbis Mortem from the west. Just the three check points: the Southern Outpost, the Eastern Wall, and the Northern Gates. Risca knew that the Northern Gates held the winter at bay. Urbis Mortem never had snowfall, but it did experience the other seasons in their fullness. Summer was currently reigning over the city and the scents of the flowers and trees, the aromas of freshly baked goods, grilled meats, and fish wafted on the summer breeze. Down by the Eastern Wall, a tinge of salt licked the air, and added to the wonder of the city smells.

Though she knew she was tired she continued her journey with school-girl giddiness. "When you taste the ocean," the map had said on the bottom, "you will be close to your destination." So it was that Risca shifted her burden to the right side of her body, keeping both hands firmly attached to the duffel bag straps, and held her head up high. She was going to be received shortly and she wanted them to view her as a woman of promise and not a lowly kid missing her papa. Whatever her heart held, Risca told herself, the face cannot betray the true emotion. Mask yourself with interest and curiosity and hold back the exhaustion and uncertainty. This was the way that Risca held herself when she came to stand in front of the gates of the great world-renowned school, SLM. "We're here," she said to herself with a smile. "We made it."

Before her stood enormous wrought iron gates with the crest of the school serving as the center lock. On her side of the gates was a simple rope pull that hung from a high, steel tower. Placing the bag at her feet as she had done in the streets earlier, she shielded her eyes and bent backwards at the hip, gazing up the tall spire. Some twelve feet above her it came to a point and she could see a huge brass bell was housed in its center. She whistled her admiration and turned to look back into the gates and gazed upon the facilities properties. It rivaled that of any commoner's college, Risca deduced. Manicured rolling lawns of green showed the mowers ruler straight paths. For a moment Risca wondered if they took the mower and went in the opposite direction could they create a checkerboard pattern into the lush lawn. She giggled again at the thought of black and white pawns playing on the checked grass. _Dark green for me, light green for you._

Pushing the childish thoughts from mind, the young girl stared farther beyond the gates and saw the school itself. It was larger than she anticipated. _How am I ever going to find my way around in there?_ She asked herself. _It's even larger than Saint Blythe Academy!_ Though this thought didn't really surprise her. Blythe was a small community where the common folk lived. It was only their vanity that named their educational facility as an academy. Looking upon SLM for the first time in person, Risca realized the conceitedness her hometown showed in doing as such. Small wonder, she thought, that she had even been recognized and called upon.

She found herself reminiscent of the day her father had explained her future to her. Though they had both been amazed and joyous, he had seemed to have not been as surprised as she. Woe for the boy she had been playing with who, like her, had no idea. After the incident things had developed quickly. Instructors from SLM visited and, along with them, were seven of the city's guards. It had all terrified and intimidated the young Risca and, although her father hid his own emotions well from the public, she could sense his own trepidation as they assumed housing in their small hovel and laid waste to their concessions and hospitality. In the end they got what they wanted, didn't they always though, and her father had signed her over to them and her life was no longer to be her own. She was called to Service, her father explained. It was a great honor, they all told her. She had only one month to organize and come to them before they'd come back. "If we must return," one of the City Guards had warned, "we will lay waste to all that you see here. And then, young lass," the guard grinned, "you can look no further than your own reflection for the reason why you have no home and no family." Risca had gulped in fear back then. She gulped in a similar fear now as she reached for, and yanked on, the hanging rope pull.

All around her, she heard the melodic tones of the bell from high above announce her presence. It wasn't a single tone that echoed across the campus but, Risca realized, a series of notes forming the beginning of the city's anthem. If she hadn't already been a bit ill at ease she'd have pulled the cord again just to hear the tunes cry out over its last notes. Instead, she steadied herself and her nerves as she waited to be admitted.

It wasn't that time had dragged or slowed to a crawl; Risca knew that you couldn't speed up or slow down the hands of time. She understood that time marched on at its own pace and only the situations we found ourselves in changed how it was perceived; that time either went so quickly or crawled so laboriously. So rather than hopping from foot to foot and watching the hands on her wrist watch she walked several paces the length of the gate first one way and then the other. Few passersby took notice of her and those she waved to cheerfully, scurried quickly away as if she were a snake ready to strike them. Risca shrugged these persons off and kept her spirits high as she could while her insides twisted into knots. It wasn't that she wouldn't have come, though she confessed to the field mice back in Blythe that she wished she had been given a choice. She simply would have liked to have been asked rather than ordered. Now she tried to not worry about the people behind the imposing wrought iron gates and thought of them as people much like her. Solidarity in circumstance, she told herself.

What felt like hours to the young girl standing before the intimidating gates was only a matter of minutes in reality. From her vantage point, she watched as three people casually crossed the pristine campus grounds towards her. They had come from some location she could not see and this frustrated her, but she kept her "I am neutral" mask visible for all the world to see and hid her angst deep within. When the three finally stopped on the opposite side of the gate she was able to take them all in.

She could tell that one was a member of the grounds guards by his demeanor and attire. He wore a rich red and white jacket which donned a black skull pin on its lapel. He was an older gentleman but she took his position into account and knew that he would not be one to tangle with. His salt and pepper hair was cut military style and held the three-point hat firmly atop his head. Risca had no idea if the sunglasses he wore were just for the day's brilliance or if they were prescription but the mirrored spectacles gave as much clue to his air as her own mask offered back to him.

The second member of the academy team was a younger female adult. While she had to be ten to twenty years Risca's senior, she was less aged then the guardsman she accompanied. Her dress matched the guards in color, but from there the two varied. Less formal, the woman wore a casual dress with a dropped hem. It was solid red with a white collar and matching turned back cuffs on her dress sleeves. On the collar she had affixed a black skull though, to Risca, the skull seemed slightly misplaced and faced the wrong way. Without being told, the young girl knew that the pin was meant to be worn on the opposite side. The woman's hair was a luxurious auburn with a deep set perm and cut to fall right below the neckline. She donned freckles both on her visage and neck, Risca noted. Her smile, unlike the guardsman, was inviting.

The last party that met her at the gate was a young man slightly older than Risca herself. From his posture she could tell that he was about a head taller than she was and his build was solid. Stocky, her father would have called it. There was no fat on him to burn though, Risca noticed, and she could tell that he took pride in taking care of himself. _I wonder if he_… she thought curiously to herself. But before she could coherently finish her thought, the boy broke the silence.

Smirking, he observed, "Well. What do we have here? Are you lost little girl? This isn't the post office or police station you know." While his speech voiced one tone his eyes spoke another. In them Risca saw kindness and curiosity. He, too, she realized, was wearing a mask. His mask was with his tone rather than his face and she only had to study his features to know that he was not the impudent boy his voice wanted her to believe.

His hair seemed to have a mind of its own; it wasn't bed-head, but, rather it had the look of "absolutely-anything-I-try-won't-make-a-particle-bit-of-difference-so-I-just-don't-bother". Risca had seen that look often. Her father wore it. No amount of hair gel had ever been able to help him keep his hair from sprouting in all directions and she could tell it was the same for this kid. Perhaps because of this similarity, Risca couldn't help but smile at him. "I'm not lost," she said. "My name's Risca and I'm supposed to be here."

He was asking the question as she had fished the official papers from her side jeans pocket. "I suppose you have the proper… ah… there might be hope for Lil Miss Outta Place yet," he chided as she produced the multi-folded envelope. "Although," he added bemusedly, "you could do well to take an origami class if you can fit it in."

During this exchange Risca could feel the eyes of the elders upon her but she opted to keep her own on the boy that held her interest. When she thrust the note out to the gate the woman leaned in, ever so slightly, and found the crest of the academy on the envelope where the stamp should have been affixed. In the entire city the academy was the one institution that did not have to pay postage. _Location had its perks_, the woman mused. She turned then to the guard with a cursory nod and stepped away from the gate.

"Ooo!" the boy exclaimed in exaggerated fashion. "You did it now! Quick!" He told her, "run! While you still can!"

Confusion replaced the placid mask Risca had been wearing as a moment's hesitation settled over her. As the gates began to rumble she stepped two paces back and found a minute trace of doubt cloud her thoughts. Quickly, she shoved it deep inside and clasped the letter in her now sweaty palms. _No,_ she told herself. _This is the real deal. What's more, _she said to steady her nerves_, I am the real deal._


	5. Chapter One Part II

**II**

The boys weren't, as a rule of thumb, skipping. Skipping was for girls and they were most definitely manly men. If asked, neither would even admit to being a boy and would offer full vocal retorts on their manhood. In age, they were short their boasted goal of being men by five and six years, but they both felt that their knowledge was broader than their average peer and so believed themselves to be more than the simple teenager and teen-to-be that they actually were. With their training and know-how, the two felt that they were an unstoppable force and had fun role playing as a means of perfecting their craft. When the academy opened for session in a few days' time they wanted to be fully prepared and have that edge against their fellow classmates.

They had been in Urbis Mortem for a week now and had grown weary of the endless prattle and warnings of their professors and upper classmen.

_Blah, blah, blah. The outside world is dangerous._

_Blah, blah, blah. Kids shouldn't go beyond the city's protection._

_Blah, blah, blah. You're too young to be out on your own and you should stay put and read this chapter on Self Preservation._

_Blah. Blah. Blah._

Because the academy hadn't officially opened its doors to students the boys took full advantage of their ability to roam the city's streets. But by their seventh day they began to call the city limits an expansion of their captivity. They were better then this; they were stronger than this. So, when the academy's bell toned to announce a new arrival, they collected their gear and stole out and over the back fence where the hedges grew thicker and taller. Here nobody, especially a student, would dare to scale the wrought iron fencing in a desire to escape the academy's safe haven. Nobody, that is, save for them.

Sniggering, they aptly scaled the ornate fencing after setting themselves atop the shrubbery in the back part of the school grounds. With practiced skill and more ease than their teacher's would have believed, the two hoisted themselves up and over the fence landing deftly as cats. High-fiving one another the two boys took off at a run towards any place beyond the wall where they could practice their moves openly and free from control.

While they were free from the academy they were still within the city limits. "I know a great little place," the one older boy bragged to his companion. "It'll be perfect!"

Easily matching pace with his friend the other boy retorted, "I'm so going to show you who's the boss!"

"In your dreams bow-boy! In your dreams!" With that taunt, the eldest of the two added more speed to his already quick paced legs and took a noticeable lead over the younger boy. From behind him he could hear the cry of cheat chasing after him and the heavier footfalls of his best friend working to close the gap.

As the two raced they intertwined through the city intersections weaving in and around the other people and darting through the traffic congested byways. Mixed with the occasional blast of a vehicle's horn was the shouts of an irate passerby that one, or on some occasion both, boys collided with in their one-on-one race to a finish line only they knew about. They reached their destination on the city side of the northeastern wall. Here there was little traffic of any kind; vehicle or human. Instead the area had become desolate after the failure of the farm crops. Abandoned buildings riddled the landscape and the weeds were near as tall as the boys themselves.

Prepping themselves for their battle the oldest one spoke up first. "You know the rules…" his grin was cunning and he took his battle stance a few feet from and facing his foe.

With a grin equal to that of his friend, the youngest finished the taunt. "There are no rules!"

Once their so-called pleasantries were offered the boys began their battle. They were equal in speed and strength and fought with their bare knuckles. Knowing that they couldn't return to the academy all bloodied over, they would always pull their punches at the last second. Either they turned the hits into slaps or mere misses with the victor shouting point, indicating that their hit would have landed had their battle been truer. Occasionally they would miss the last second pull back and knew that, when their punch landed on its mark or the pullback was too sloppy, the other scored the point and they lost one of their own.

This was a game that they had been playing since they were old enough to walk and it was a rare moment indeed when flesh made hard contact. Still, when they continued their fight and lost themselves to the dance moves, slaps became hits and misses became missiles that drew blood or bruised the skin it hit. As the eldest, Reece's punches usually caused more noticeable injuries to his friend. Bo, however, always calculating and more balanced, would have the more accurate of blows.

Their game went on for a while until Bo had to yield after a particularly hard throw from his friend. Laying in the grassy field afterward the boys recounted the fight and critiqued each other on their technique. With the sweat rolling from his forehead into his eyes, Reece chewed on a stalk of dead grass. He was panting, but not hard. At least, not as hard as Bo. "You wanna try again?" He asked noncommittally.

Using his aching hands to run through his bleached white hair, Bo managed, "you're not serious? Not right now… are you?"

Reece got up and rested on his left elbow as he turned to face his best friend. "I don't mean the game, bow-boy," he replied. "I mean… do you wanna try again?"

Shaking his head like a wet dog, Bo pushed himself up and sat Indian style in the patch of dirt he had found. Looking at Reece he saw his friend's brow cocked with that "I'm all that" grin coming back to his visage. "Ohhhh," Bo said as understanding dawned. "You want the weapon."

Reece nodded, but just once. "I'm sure it'll work this time. Come on. What do you say?"

Bo considered Reece's offer. This wouldn't be their first time practicing together, but there was a part of him that knew how it would end. Reece knew, too. He was sure of it. Yet it was typical Reece. He was the best maester Bo had ever known and Bo knew that he was the toughest weapon. Only that never seemed to be enough. No matter how many times they tried, they just couldn't be in sync and make it work. What was worse, Bo knew, was the pain associated with the failures. Like a jarring jolt of electricity running all through him.

As Bo was considering all of this, he realized that Reece had asked his question again. Reece wasn't known for his patience and Bo knew he had to answer. Failing to do so would bring the Wrath of Reece upon him. He was about to answer when the question was repeated for a third time. Only it hadn't been asked by Reece. This voice was new and all wrong. It hadn't been a boy's voice; it was feminine.

Startled by this new voice, Reece spun in his spot and Bo's eyes followed to where Reece was now looking. Just a few feet away stood a figure. Bo didn't recognize who the person was but an uneasy feeling settled around him. Reece, on the other hand, quickly got to his feet and displayed his "I'm-the-best-there's-ever-been" grin. "I don't know you," he said in a menacingly yet playful tone, "but I'd be more than happy to show you what I got."

The girl chuckled. At least that was how she appeared to Bo; older than the two of them but younger than an adult. Her laugh was amusing and yet if felt devoid of humor to him. There was definitely something off about her he realized. Bo just couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. Then there was the matter of the others. Bo counted eight in all and he cursed his ineptness. _How could I have missed them?_ He scolded himself. _How could we have not heard them come?_

She was speaking again. Bo could tell that there was a challenge to her voice and it grated on Reece. Sensing the growing tension Bo rose to a full standing position behind his best friend and closed the gap between them. Though his muscles were fraught with rigidity he forced himself to rise slowly; casually, like there was nothing out of the ordinary.

"Little boys out playing fight club?" Her voice sang out to them, tauntingly.

Puffing out his chest, Reece asked, "and just who the hell are you?"

Tsking loudly, the girl replied, "such language!" She feigned shock and Bo could read the sarcasm beneath. "Don't they bother to teach you manners anymore?"

Filled with confidence, possibly due to the girl's young appearance and quirkiness, Reece turned from her and looked over his shoulder to Bo. "You believe this chick?"

"'Chick' am I?" The girl asked, mimicking Reece's use of the slang. "Hey boys!" She called behind her to where her companions began to form. And suddenly Bo understood. They had been cloaked before; hidden. That was why they hadn't known they were there, hadn't sensed their presence. They were hidden from them. And that meant…

"Witch," Reece sputtered vilely beneath his breath at the same moment it came to Bo.

Like Reece had done to Bo the girl now did to them. She broke her eye contact with them and turned back to her friends. "What do you say we teach these boys some manners?" She laughed, egging on their fervor for violence.

Behind her the group broke out into uproarious laughter and cat-calls. It was an unsettling cacophony to Bo and a troubling sense of uncertainty filled him. He wanted to leave. "Hey… Reece…" he called to his friend.

Reece had turned back to take in the intruders and Bo could sense that their laughter had their desired effect on Reece. Bo watched as his friend stiffened with anger and clenched his fists, ready to fight.

Through clenched teeth, Reece stammered bitterly, "laugh at me will you!"

Mustering all his strength, the young boy charged head-on towards the slightly older girl standing just a few feet away from him. From what Bo could discern she didn't even bother to form a defensive stance. She simply stood there with a smirk on her face watching the young boy race towards her, all caution thrown to the wind. As he rapidly approached her he let out a war cry to rival all cries, his visage erect with furious concentration and brought his left arm up and over, ready to strike at her with his balled up fist.

Just at the moment of impact, the girl side stepped his attack and Reece continued flying forward, his strike completely missing her body but feeling the rippling robes that she donned. With his arms pin wheeling madly, Reece stumbled a few feet beyond where she now stood. His war cry became one of fury as he just managed to stay righted on his feet and turned back towards her for another attack. "Oh please," she said drolly.

She waited until the last possible moment, again, and easily feigned to the right when Reece was upon her again, ready to strike. His first flung outward and touched nothing but dead air. This time, when Reece righted himself, he stayed where he was standing. He wasn't out of breath, but his breathing was labored and his back hunched ever so slightly. "Fight me you bitch!" He screamed angrily.

Before she could reply, Reece felt a slight shift in the breeze behind him and a new voice joined the fray. Infuriated, Reece spun about and found a man standing just beyond Bo. He was older yet still on the youthful side of age. He wore a long grey jacket that billowed in the wind about him. His hair was as grey as his coat but it was unevenly cut, more so then Reece's own hairstyle. He wore spectacles that sat firmly on the bridge of his nose. Reece took notice and saw a jagged scar that ran from beneath the man's eye down the side of his face. It was as if it were some obscene second side burn that ran in front of the first.

The new arrival seemed unfazed but casually interested by the situation. He stood before everyone, coat tails wafting. When he spoke it was monotone and seemed to compliment his grey and white attire. "Looks like quite the gathering we have here," he commented off-handedly. "Enough for a baseball team perhaps, but I don't see any ball or gloves," he observed.

Completely agitated with his failure to pummel the girl, and now the arrival of this new person, Reece replied, "who the hell are you?!" He demanded as he turned to the strange man.

In the back of Bo's mind something began to formulate, but it remained just beyond his reach. He watched the exchange between Reece and the girl with grave concern, but now he was more curious then anything. "Consider me," the grey man began, "as a casual observer. A passersby if you will."

His tension undaunted, Reece snapped, "Then get on with it! Just pass by already! Can't you see I have a fight to finish here?"

"It would seem to me," the man observed, "that you might be a bit outnumbered."

From beyond the boys the crowd, led by the girl, began laughing. Reece was fuming. "You might be outnumbered old man," he retorted huffily, "but I'm Reece Sutā! I'm never outnumbered and I never loose! So back on away and let me get down to business. I'll make quick work of this…"

"Witch," the grey man said.

"Whatever," Reece sputtered as he turned back to face his foe.

"No," the man said. "That's what she is."

"No kidding," the insolent teen retorted, "we already figured that part out." Reece readied himself for another strike.

"Actually," the man continued in his even tone as he closed the distance and came to stand next to Reece, "they're all witches."

He had been ready to throw caution to the wind and run pell-mell towards the girl opposing him when the man's words sunk in. Jerking his head back to meet the old man's face the boy looked questioningly at him. "What?" He had known that the girl must've been a witch but he hadn't allowed himself to think about the others.

"You've stumbled onto a horde of witches, Reece," the man said. "And, unless you have a found a way to manipulate your friend there in his weapon form," he continued as he took a couple steps forward, closing the gap between him and the lead witch, "you might want to reconsider. Go back to the academy. Now might be a good time to do that."

"Witches!" Reece swore beneath his breath. How could he have not realized that they were all witches? Opportunity sparkled in his irises. "Let's have at 'em then!" he added all too eagerly.

"Like I said, Young Maester," the man said as he afforded a quick glance back to the boys, "unless you have found the way to sync your soul with your friend then you won't be able to do anything except maybe get yourselves killed."

"Hey Reece," Bo began, "I'm all for a fight just like the next weapon," he said as he took a couple steps back, "but I don't think this is our fight."

Reece's mouth dropped open and he glared at Bo with daggers for eyes. "Are you cowarding out on me bow-boy?!" He asked incredulously.

"I'm no coward," Bo replied fiercely. "But I also know I'm no good to you in weapon form and I don't know how well our game fights are going to play with this lot. Let's just go…."

"You should listen to your friend," the stranger said as he, once more, put his back to them. "You'll only be in the way here. Get back to the academy and let them know what's going on. They'll send recruits… though it may be too late by then," he finished.

"What… what about you?" Reece asked uncertainly.

"Me? I'll be fine. I've been itching for a good fight and I have a few surprises for this lot if they don't disband. It should be… interesting."

"Disband?" Reece repeated. "You mean… you'll let them go?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"A wise man knows when to fight, Young Maester," the man explained. "A wise maester knows when not to fight."

With that the man dismissed them both with a curt nod and he turned his attention on the witches that were slowly assembling several yards away. The small group seemed to have realized that they had stumbled upon a scene and were keeping back out of reach assessing the situation.

Tugging on his friend's shirtsleeve, Bo said, "come on, Reece. Let's go. Let's get to the academy and report this. It's not our fight. Not today."

"This _sucks_!" Reece muttered bitterly. "I know we can take them…"

"If they were regular bad guys sure," Bo agreed as he kept a firm hold on Reece's arm. He led his friend back the way they had come. Every few feet the two boys turned to watch the standoff in the field which, with every foot fall they took closer towards the school, seemed to be nothing more than an old-fashioned stalemate.


	6. Chapter One Part III

**III**

In the meadow the figures squared off. The gentle breeze that had begun not long ago began to pick up. The poised man's hair blew gracefully in its wake as his coat tails billowed beneath him. No matter what sounds were made, whether by the whip of the wind, a nearby loon, the flapping of his leather jacket, or the crunch of a multitude of feet just yards from where he stood, the focused man's pale gray eyes never wavered from the figures before him.

There were eight in all but only one whom the others appeared to rally behind. As a whole, the group definitely had an air of intimidation. But intimidation relied on weak opponents and the gray clad stranger was anything but weak.

The majority of them held their ground and stood back from the eighth, their leader-apparent. They seemed content to glare at him from afar feeling a certain level of safety in the distance separating them. The eighth, the young woman who enjoyed taunting the teenaged boys, braved to breech the expanse between them. There really was nothing remarkable about her. Outwardly she looked like any other young woman. Her manner of dress was uber-conservative, covering her from head to toe. Perhaps one would find it odd that she wrapped herself in a cloak, but this was Urbis Mortem and cloaks were a dime a dozen and vastly preferred over basic coats and jackets. Beneath her pale lilac hood was a full head of auburn hair. It was loosely permed and the curls complimented her pear-shaped visage. Bright green eyes stared out at the man as equally as intense as his own lingered on her.

Her smile spoke volumes. When she finally did lend her voice to speech it held a flirtatious and fun quality. "Well," she smirked. "Look what the dogs' drug out." Mockingly she bowed in a deep, sweeping gesture of false praise.

In retort the man pulled a thin cigarette from the top pocket of his jacket. He fit it snuggly between his teeth. Fluidly, and with such quick succession that the woman didn't realize where it had come from, he produced a wooden matchstick. Flicking its tip the match caught alight and he used it to light the paper stick protruding from his lips.

Breaking the silence she spoke again. "How nice it must be to have his Lorshipiness allow you to roam beyond the Academy gates. What happened? Did he fall ill? Take pity on you? Loose his senses?" With each passing question she laughed just slightly louder and longer than the one before it.

Still he remained silent. Puffs of smoke escaped his nose and mouth. Some escaped and evaporated before him and some wafted above him as if trying to encircle him.

With a cluck of annoyance she dared to advance a few paces toward him yet she kept her reasonable distance. "You are so not fun anymore," she proclaimed. "Do you know that?"

His continued stance and resistance to her taunts began to unnerve her. "Did his Lordshipiness make you mute or perhaps a cat stole your tongue?"

As if to tempt her his reply was reserved and short. "Meow," he quietly answered.

Even with the distance between them he could see her cheeks flush full red as his calm disposition began to grate on her. _It was the best part of the dance_, he thought to himself. When all one has to do is stand still and let the opposition work themselves into a frenzy with but a little shove from them. Then the dance was made all that better.

Her tone took a harsh air and her eyes narrowed to a glaring squint. "I'm so going to enjoy destroying you," she spat.

Blowing out more smoke he shifted his footing so that his left side was facing her. He bent his knees and held his battle stance. _I doubt I need to_, he thought silently, _but this one is wiry and undisciplined. This will be quick whichever way she takes it._ "It was very foolish of you," he spoke at last.

As he knew it would, his words threw her and she paused. Queerly she turned her head to the side and looked questioningly back at him. "Are you calling me a fool?" She asked, venom lacing her words.

"You read into my words what you want," he replied philosophically. "The proof of my claim is laid bare by your words. But I will explain if you'd like," he added, cutting her remarks off as she opened her mouth to respond. "It was very foolish of you to remove your mask when you found the kids," he told her.

Unexpectedly she smiled at his summation. "You say I'm the fool," she rebuked him.

_So I was right_, he thought to himself. _There is more going on here. But I can't let her know I know so I'll play this game and let her reveal her secret unwittingly._ "You must have been in the city for a great long while," he explained in between the drags he took. "But you erred your mission when you dropped your mask."

Feeling confident she turned her back to him. Sheepishly she replied, "Is that what you think? That I wronged myself by dropping the mask?"

Though he had the opening he purposefully allowed it to slip by him and, when she turned back to face him, he continued his presumptions. "To what end would you have to reveal yourself to a couple of students? You presumed that they'd be easy prey and thought you'd outwit them. You had the advantage. What with your expertise who is to say otherwise?"

"Is that supposed to be a compliment or a quip?" She asked, uncertainty edging its way into her tone.

He decided to ignore her and continue with his plan of attack. "Of course you might have been right in that assumption. Had you engaged them you might have even won." He allowed a gracious smile to decorate his visage. The cigarette sat squarely in his mouth, bouncing ever so slightly but far from falling.

She shared her own version of a smile but hers was more menacing. Her voice crept up an octave as a veil of threats sweetened her lips. "You bet your ass I would have won!" She declared fervently. "Your new recruits are pitiful!" She professed.

The man gave a single nod of agreement. "They are quite green at the moment," he agreed, "and yet you failed to do anything about it or investigate their strength because, instead," he added and spat the cigarette out. With a quick step and turn he squashed the smoldering butt into the dirt, "you lowered your cloak and revealed yourself."

She laughed at this then and he allowed her the time it took to finish. "And how long! It took you to find me," she shot back accusingly.

He raised an eyebrow at her but stayed his silent course.

"Do you have any idea how long before you came that I had dropped my mask?" She asked, the trails of victory lacing her words.

Again he stayed still and allowed her to gloat. To himself he repeated a single phrase. _Wait for it. Wa-a-ait for it. _

"I was unmasked the entire time those adolescent boys played their little 'fight club' charade. They couldn't see me," she added quickly, "because I was cloaked in more than what you see now."

"Of course," he interrupted, unable to help himself. "You were using your magics to hide yourself from plain sight. I venture to guess," he went on, "that you were very close by the boys and they had no idea."

"Naturally!" She shouted in triumph. "They're so inept they're bound to be killed the first time your Lordshipiness sends them out!" She stopped her speech so that she could revel in fits of laughter. "And!" She cried out with glee, tears streaming from her eyes, "I really hope that He sends them to me! I can't wait to end their pitiful existence and take their life sources for my own!"

_I think I've learned all I can from her_, he thought to himself. From his right hand a tingling sensation began to grow. The witches cackling fell off almost instantly the moment she noticed the yellow traces of light flickering from finger to finger. "I'm afraid I can't allow that," he said plainly.

Stripped of all humor, she turned to face him full on. "So we're at it then," she observed.

"If that is what you wish," he answered. "Myself," he added after a brief pause, "I have many other and better things that I need to be doing right now. But you came here. You revealed yourself. You threatened the Academy students," he rattled off. "I don't see where we have any other choice."

For the first time the young witch allowed herself to see her opponent. The fire in his hand was growing and total understanding dawned on her. She took a couple of hesitant steps backwards. Raising her arms in front of her, as if to ward off any impending strikes, she found her voice. "Sure," her voice faltered, betraying her uncertainty, "we could do this. But to what end?" She questioned.

"Yours," he said in that monotone voice of his.

"Or yours!" She added, all too quickly.

_Just as I figured_, he thought quietly_. She's young and not very bright. She's on a mission and not ready for confrontation._ "What are you proposing?" He asked with a hint of feigned curiosity.

Recognizing the life line she snatched it up quickly, hoping that it would hold her. "Another day another time," she offered. "No rules were broken here. No innocence was lost. Let's call it a day."

"I'm just supposed to let you go?" He asked with a note of disbelief sewn into his tone.

"No," she said all too quickly, "but I will let you go."

"How very generous of you," he replied simply. "And why would you do that?"

The pause was short but noticeable and she cringed when it happened. "Think of those poor brats you just sent running home to mommy," she threw out. "What sport would there be in my total annihilation of them if I've destroyed you and you weren't around to train them? To ready them for their battle with me?"

A smarmy smile spread across his lips. "So," he surmised, "we won't fight today… for the sake of the kids?"

Again he raised an eyebrow and she found that response irksome. _One day_, she thought bitterly, _I'm going to fry that eyebrow right off of you!_ "I just want them to have a fighting chance," she offered graciously, bowing before him again in her over exaggerated manner. "There's no glory in quick defeats of defenseless babies," she said. "While I wouldn't mind the lauds I'd receive for removing you from this plane of existence, let's offer the brats some type of training so that when I return from…"

She had been rambling and she had almost revealed the heaviest guarded secret of her sect of all time. _Did I give her pause by shifting position and leaning in?_ He wondered as she suddenly cut herself off. _No matter_, he decided. _I learned quite enough for one day. I don't even think she realizes all that she did tell me. This is good. This is very good._

The witch shook a long, scrawny finger at him. With a scowl she nodded. "Almost, Maester," she said. "Almost." With that she was gone like the puffs of smoke he had created earlier. The others followed in kind and he found himself alone in the field.


	7. Chapter One Part IV

**IV**

With a start she stirred from the far back seat and stretched as she slowly awoke. The dream still held her in its grips and a part of her wanted to return to it. She had this dream more often than not now-a-days but that was okay by her. Anything that helped her remember the happier times; the fun times; the times when they were altogether, that was just fine by her. There was a part of her that fancied drifting off to sleep, settling into the dream, and never returning. Peace and contentment existed in that dream and she found nothing wrong with that.

They had laid the light blanket over her while she slept and she pulled the handmade blanket up to her chin and hugged it tightly. Her granmama had pained over the blanket for nearly a year and it was the last thing she had given to the young girl before death stole her away from them. She treasured the blanket as if it were life itself. With an exaggerated yawn she stretched once more and sat upright on the fine, black leathered bench seat. The far back of the limousine was the most comfortable and her parents hadn't begrudged her the desire to sprawl out and sleep. After all, it wasn't as if there was little room. The stretch limousine could hold twelve people even with the beverage bar that was always fully stocked. In her families native tongue she asked if she could have some bottled water and her mother, smiling ever so politely, retrieved the Dasani from the chilled cooler and handed it to her with a cloth napkin to soak the wet from the bottle so it wouldn't drip. She offered her thanks to her mother as she accepted the drink, twisted the top, and drank freely and at length.

Although they were in America now, and had been for some seven months, neither of her parents spoke any English. The young girl felt honored to have been taught the foreign language and she now spoke it as fluently as her parents spoke Japanese. She had no qualms about holding a conversation in mixed dialect and, at times, would do so just to impress those around her. When they first arrived she had been certain that things would be different; that the lifestyle they'd grown accustomed to in Japan would not be offered to them in the States. She was also so certain that the people would not like her and that she'd be alone. She'd wasted many nights arguing with her parents over their decision. Though she had known they would not budge once they had made their choice, she had tried to get them to see things through her eyes. _If only_, she thought sourly. If only the fight hadn't happened. If he had just let her be then she'd still be back home living in blissful ignorance.

Only, it had happened and she had gotten hurt and barely escaped. He was out of control and she knew he would try again. So they had left. Fled was more like it, she recalled. They fled in the dead of night with no protection and yet they had made it. They had left their quaint village on the outskirts of Okinawa and caught a flight to the United States. Her father had known many influential people and they were allowed to enter even if they were lacking the proper paperwork. When they deplaned at the international airport she was speechless to find a limousine waiting for them. Money, her father had told her, has power in America. To him, she knew, money was the true universal language. It saddened her, though, to watch her father make deals with the American foreigners. Because he didn't speak their language he didn't know what they sometimes said about him and she vowed to never be the one to tell him.

Not even her brother spoke English as well as she did. While they had both taken it in school she had excelled where he had barely scratched the surface. It was what had made her feel special. She was the only one in the family that could speak dual languages. Now, she had come to realize, she was special for other reasons as well. She, her mother had told her, was very special. It hadn't made a lot of sense to her when her mother explained it but she had known enough to understand its ramifications. If she wasn't careful…

She had gotten lost in thought as she stared out beyond the limousines darkly tinted window. Everything else around her faded, even her own doubt and fears, as she watched the city unfold in the window frame. They had entered the city a while back and that was what had interrupted her sleep. Her parents had tried to prepare her for the entry points and the delay that they might have experienced. Only, they didn't have any delays and were immediately waved through. It seemed, her father explained, that they were expected. She wasn't sure how she felt about that and it added to her list of worries. So she had opted to enjoy the refreshingly cool water and gaze out beyond the confines of the vehicle carrying them onward.

It was so vast! The architecture seemed all over the place and yet so well defined that one building complimented the one before it and so on and so forth. There were so many people, too! People walking, people biking, people on scooters, (_Just like back home!_ She thought with a note of glee) and people in groups and people on their own. The streets were littered with people and vehicles and their progress was slowed to a crawl. Their chauffeur was saying something in Japanese to her parents. Apparently, it seemed, today was a big day. When she asked the driver what he meant he simply laughed and, in Japanese, told them that the Academy was enrolling today. It was the third day this week, he expounded, and there were so many people who were coming to join the school as well as those yearning for a glimpse at the next set of Maesters.

Settling back into her seat she hugged the blanket once more. _And to think_, she told herself, _you're going to be working with them…_ She giggled silently.


	8. Chapter Two Part I

**Two**

**I**

She hadn't always been the most cautious in her young life but, ever since the incident, she had made her decisions with conscience effort and careful consideration. As an only child she had never had to share a room or her belongings with anyone; that was all different now. The check-in process had been painfully slow and cumbersome but she had gotten through it. She had extended her right hand in friendship to her new roommate and it had been shaking briskly. Beyond that she hadn't had any true interaction with the girl who was about to share the next undetermined amount of years with her. It had darkened Risca's mood and raised her apprehension, but she was determined to be the best roommate a girl could possibly want. So she suffered through her roommate's lack of attention and apparent disarray.

When Risca first woke the morning that classes were to begin she felt rested yet uneasy. It was all so unknown to her and she wished that her father were with her now so that he could hold her hand and reassure her. Rubbing her eyes clear of sleep she looked across the dorm to her roommate's bed. It was empty but the covers were tousled. _Perhaps she went to shower_, Risca thought. Shrugging her shoulders she let loose the first yawn of the day and then proceeded out of bed to begin her morning routine. As much as she had wanted to rush through and run out the door to be the first one present and ready to start her training, she forced herself to remain calm and take her time. _First appearances_, she told herself. _First appearances_.

After she was finished and ready she took a few extra moments before walking out of her quaint room. She looked back at her roommate's empty, mussed bed and hoped that wherever she had gotten herself that she would not be late to classes. She made certain that their door clicked behind her and she cheerfully began her journey to the building housing the classrooms. The night before she had studied the academy map and even tested herself just to make sure she'd find her way without incident. In the plain brown, cloth bag that jangled at her hip she had the books she knew she'd need: some notebooks for writing, a couple pens and pencils, a handheld sharpener, a bottle of water, and two energy bars.

With confidence she crossed the immaculate grounds and made her way to the west wing of the building and found a mass of other students making their way in her same general direction_. So many!_ She thought to herself. When she met up with the throng of kids she fell in place and listened in on the scattered conversations around her. Mostly they were sharing excitement and predictions of the semester ahead. Others were exchanging cell phone numbers so that they could text throughout the day because So-and-So never paid attention once a lesson was given so they could text and play games during the lesson periods. A small handful, Risca realized, were talking about some excitement that had happened in the city but beyond the school borders. She found herself drawn to these conversations the most, but when the other kids realized she was eavesdropping, they would shoot her a look of scorn and walk off quickly.

Not all, but a good handful of the kids, were headed in Risca's same direction and class. At the doorway she waited on the side as the older, taller, and those that were more impatient squeezed their way inside. When the way was clear she took a deep breath, grasped the handle of her side bag in her right hand, and walked into the classroom. Just beyond the entry she came to a momentary stop as the grandness of the room consumed her.

The room was the shape of a cupcake. The student seating comprised the semi-circle icing and the lectern and black board mimicked the base of the cake. The student seating was raised with the first row beginning on the floor of the room and then expanding upward and around the back arch of the room's design. To Risca she found herself thinking of the Roman coliseums where spectators ringed the arena. There were five rows of seats etched into the cement basing. Counting quickly, Risca thought each row to hold at least a dozen plastic chairs where the kids would all sit. Those before her had dotted the landscape like some unclear Morse code signal. Here a pupil there two chairs were empty. Here three students and there a chair stood vacant. A huge gap where nobody was daring to sit and then another student took residence on the end chair. She gulped back her uncertainty and found an ideal location and made her way, with purpose, towards the third tier where many empty seats sat waiting to be claimed.

Choosing her seat she slung her beige tote over the high back of the chair and fell into the curved, plastic seat and began to soak up the ambiance of the room itself. Towards the front of the room on either side of the lectern she saw the hand carved wooden book cases. They were filled with an uncountable number of books that climbed the walls and nearly topped out at the ceiling. From her vantage point she could tell most were leather bound and she pondered what secrets they held. She made a mental note to speak with their teacher and ask if the students were allowed to pull the books out for reading.

The lectern was plain and made of wood. There was nothing ornate about it apart from the academy's initials carved into the side facing the students: SLM. The letters overlapped each other with each one dropped just a bit lower beneath the one before it so that it ran diagonally in a downward position. It was the academy's original crest and, Risca knew, that while there had been much heated debate about changing it, the more talk there had been the more it had stayed the same. The founder, it seemed, didn't care about the changing times. He was more interested in keeping with tradition. Risca wondered if those that didn't fit the "M" felt slighted by their omission in the naming, but she somehow doubted that. It was well known that the SLM graduates were among the best in the world and she counted herself lucky to have been approved to attend. While the official invitation had definitely left its mark on her, Risca still felt honored and knew that she'd never have refused. The opportunities the SLM graduates were afforded were just too much to deny. Risca intended to prove herself to her teachers so that she could, upon graduation, reap the benefits of what other SLM graduates had come to appreciate.

She had been lost in thought of the future she couldn't wait to begin when a voice interrupted her contemplations. It came from her right and she didn't recognize it. Allowing curiosity to get the best of her she pulled herself from a life that didn't yet exist and turned to face the person belonging to the voice.

He was already in the process of taking the free seat next to her and, when he was fully down, she realized that their eyes met. His were a light hazel color hidden behind a pair of silver wired framed glasses. When he looked at her his eyes seemed to smile in unison with the slightly parted lips that showed a glimmer of perfectly aligned, white teeth. As she gazed upon him in those first few seconds she took in his immaculate hair that framed his visage. It was auburn and lay evenly with not a hair out of place. She took an extra moment to study his hair and realized that its perfection was aided with a glistening gel. He was saying something to her and his voice sounded funny… well… not truly funny; just different. "Pardon?" She asked sheepishly, smiling her ignorance at his comment.

The boy returned her smile and extended his right hand after wiping it quickly against the side of his blue stripped dress shirt. "'Ello," he repeated, arm extended with his palm open and sideways. "I'm… Pierre. It's good to… see you," he smiled warmly.

Risca's smile grew and she accepted Pierre's hand in her own and shook it congenially. With a bit of an embarrassed laugh she returned his greeting. "Risca," she said. "Good morning Pierre."

Pointing to the space he was occupying next to her he asked, "Okay, yes?" When she didn't respond but stared questioningly back at him, he added, "for me to sit here?"

Again, Risca laughed at her own ineptness. "Of course," she answered, "please do."

"Thank you," Pierre replied, his voice heavy with an accent.

As the boy next to her settled in and began to pull out his own supplies Risca looked towards the lectern and saw that it was still vacant. No teacher yet. This was good, she thought. Turning back to her neighboring peer she asked, "You aren't from around here. Are you?"

Having finished organizing his station, Pierre looked back to Risca and shook his head. "No. Far, far away. This is… my first time in 'Merica," he confessed.

"It's America," Risca corrected, emphasizing the beginning letter. "Where are you from?" She asked, not wanting him to dwell on his mispronunciation or her correcting him.

"Barkmere," he answered.

"I don't think I…" Risca began.

Pierre didn't allow her time to finish as he seemed prepared for what she was about to say. "Is in Quebec," he told her. "Is very… small. Very small… but very… beau," he added.

Risca laughed. "Beau?" She hid her laughter behind her hand, trying not to appear impolite. "Sorry. It's just that beau is a word we use to describe boys over here."

Pierre shared her laughter. "Beautiful," he managed between his chuckles.

As he laughed Risca saw that he had a single dimple on his left cheek. Between his accent and his dimple she found him endearing. She was about to respond to him when the academy's chimes began indicating the start of their first class. The jingle drew her attention away from Pierre and she looked towards the classroom doorway. The figure that walked in took her breath away. It seemed that hers was not the only breath stolen as the other students in the room took notice.


	9. Chapter Two Part II

**Two**

**II**

The tall, slender man's gait was one that commanded every eye to follow him. As he crossed the threshold he stole quietly and congenially into the room and made his way from the door to the front of the lectern. He stood there and gazed out upon the mass of students whose eyes were all on him. In his monotone voice he greeted them. "Good morning."

Some of the pupils were too enraptured to respond while others offered either a cheerful retort or the typical it's-too-early-to-be-here exchange. "While some of you no doubt know who I am," he continued in his even speech, "I am equally certain there are a fair amount of you who have no idea who I am."

From the audience that were his students several arms shot in the air, eager to tell the less knowing whom they had the pleasure of being addressed by. He dismissed them all and walked closer to the collection of kids in a casual, after-thought manner. Setting his spectacles to right on the bridge of his nose he went on with his self-introduction. "My name is…"

"Oooo! Oooo ooo ooo!" Came an over eager shout from the top row to the left of where Risca sat, "I know this one!" Many of the kids, including Risca, craned their necks to identify the eager young boy.

The man chuckled bemusedly. "How nice for you," he replied matter-of-factly. "So if there comes a test asking the question that will be one that you get right."

Many of the kids in the classroom sniggered at this and the boy's arm fell down to his desk and he lowered his eyes. Risca could tell by the way he scowled that his sudden cheerfulness had been dashed and replaced with something less worthy to share with the class.

"As I was saying," the man spoke again, "my name is Dr. Steine. I am the Headmaster of the School of Life Maesters and haven't taught for many years now. However," he added, "it would seem that we are without a professor for this class so I have decided to fill in, hopefully temporarily," he added quickly, "until we can locate a suitable professor for this class.

"If this is your first year at the academy then you need to check your schedules and make certain you are where you are supposed to be. This," he announced as he turned to the black board behind the lectern, "is Histories and Lessons 101." As he spoke from where he stood, the words slowly began to scrawl themselves onto the surface of the black board. Several of the students inhaled deeply while others either whistled or nodded approvingly. Turning back to the class he added, "and if you are not in your first year then allow me to welcome you back with the hopes that this time," he emphasized with a smile, "you will pass this course."

Dr. Steine's eyes searched the swell of kids and settled on two in the middle section on the far right. The boys shifted uneasily in their chairs. Those nearby the two giggled at their embarrassment.

"First things first," Dr. Steine said as he strode away from the pupils and made his way to the lectern. "This is our first year that we have incorporated an electro-generated attendance. For those of you that are in the dark on this technical advancement allow me to demonstrate."

The doctor strode from the lectern to the doorway of the classroom. Disappearing for a brief moment he then reappeared with a student standing just behind him, beyond the frame of the entryway. "I don't want anyone to rise from their seats and come for a closer look, but when you leave this classroom today pay particular attention to the frame itself. Right now, to the casual passerby who is unaware, there is nothing remarkable or different about it; it's a simple door frame. Until, that is, a student happens to cross over it." Dr. Steine turned from the classroom and extended his right arm to the pupil behind him. He waved to the boy indicating that he should enter the classroom.

With a smile, the teenaged boy waltzed nonchalantly into the room. "Just make sure," he said as he passed by the professor, "that you don't really mark me late since you told me to wait out there." The boy winked as he strolled toward the raised seating for the students.

Turning his attention back to the class as he returned to the lectern, Dr. Steine asked, "Did you see that?"

Blank, questioning stares answered his question.

Dr. Steine smiled. "And so you won't if the system functions properly but!" He exclaimed with a note of surprise at the end. "As you leave here today take a closer look at the doorway and you'll notice several small, silver discs imbedded in the wood. Those discs will read you as you enter the classroom and mark you as being in attendance."

While the doctor went on with his explanation an interruptive statement came from a boy in the group. His voice sounded tentative and his face carried a look of uncertainty. "My mom told me that radiation is bad for me," he began as his voice cracked and spoke over the professor's. "I'm going to have to see what she says about this before I can agree to this type of attendance," he concluded with a hint of perplexment.

Stopping his explanation, Dr. Steine looked to where the boy who had spoken was seated. His eyes searched the youth for a hint of humor he was certain had to be at the base of his proclamation. Seeing nothing but sincerity he shook his head as he responded. "While I can stand here and debate with you, Simon, the pros and cons of radiation, I'm opting to move on as your declaration only leaves me flummoxed for a retort."

Honest concern consumed the boy as he was unwilling to let his remark go. "No! Seriously!" He exclaimed, "What am I supposed to do?"

Sighing heavily, Dr. Steine turned back to take in full the questioning student. "If you are asking me that, Simon," he replied, "than I'm left with but one question. Are you sure you're even old enough to be here?" Dr. Steine returned to the lectern and rested his right arm atop the stand and crossed his right leg in front of his left.

Simon, the boy, blushed.

"There is nothing for you to worry over, Simon," the professor stated plainly. "You have nothing to worry about in the regards of radiation. For certain if that is your primary concern then allow me to put it to bed for you. Remove that thought from your troubled mind, Simon," he went on, "and know that this is a safe means and a quick means to take attendance so that we can spend the bulk of our time together discussing the lessons.

"This is how roll call will be taken at the SLM. Each morning you come into class, and for all classrooms that assemble in the building, your attendance will be recorded as you walk through the doorway and mark you as present. There is much for you to learn and, perhaps, there may not be enough time to teach it to you. What precious time we waste on unnecessary activities and discussions will only serve to delay your education and training."

Another arm shot in the air but this time the student held her tongue until Dr. Steine acknowledged her. "What if we have to leave the classroom for some reason?"

"The system records every time you enter and exit a single classroom," Dr. Steine explained. "This method, as you can probably surmise, can track your movements throughout the day throughout the entire academy. When classes are in session and if you need to leave you can. Just know that there is a limit on the duration of your exit. Stay out beyond a certain amount of time and it records your early departure. You have no more than seven minutes to return. Stay out past that time and it is recorded on your academic record. Collect too many of these recordings and you will be expelled from the academy altogether."

A collective intake of breath could be heard throughout the raised dais where the students sat. Muted grumblings were inaudible as they were whispered among each other. Risca could imagine that the majority were not pleased and considering a boycott or some similar action to repeal this regulation.

"Likewise," Dr. Steine chose to ignore the gasps and hushed murmurs and continued on with the first day rule review. "Should you fail to attend classes three days in a row, or a maximum of five days per progress period, you will find yourself out of that class and before the academy board for expulsion consideration."

Again the students gasped and gawked at their teacher. Knowing that he had their rapt attention, Dr. Steine continued. "SLM wants to teach you. You are all valuable assets to the community and to the world. The first thing you need to know is that you need to want to learn. If you don't want to learn then you're wasting my time and your fellow classmates' times. What we have to teach here at the SLM is vital not only to your own survival but to your future partner's survival as well. You might not want to appreciate classes like Histories and Lessons, Sciences and Mysteries, and Math and Languages. But! You will be asked to attend even these types of classes or you will be asked to leave."

From somewhere down in the front row, where Risca couldn't clearly see, another hand shot in the air. When Dr. Steine acknowledged the student Risca heard the boy ask, "If we're here to learn how to master our traits," he began, "then why do I need to know history or what two plus two equals?"

Seizing the moment another student chimed in, humor lacing his every word. "It's twenty-two you moron!" The teenager snickered and high-fived his friend sitting on his left.

"Good one Kael!" The friend laughed.

"You're the moron, Kael," another voice piped in.

"Who said that!?" Kael demanded as he scanned the area where he thought he heard the voice come from.

Having had enough of the interruption and knowing that the conversation's direction was going badly and distracting everyone, Dr. Steine raised his voice. "Enough!" He shouted. Instantly the student body fell silent and all eyes returned to him. Straightening his glasses again, the doctor turned and studied the earnest visage of the boy who spurred the now derailed conversations. "Can someone from the group tell us why it is important to study and learn history?"

Feeling somewhat sure of herself Risca raised her hand. When the doctor acknowledged her she replied, "Because those who don't know or understand history are destined to repeat it."

Feigning a cough the rebel-rouser responded, speaking just below a shout level into his hand, "Kiss ass."

Dr. Steine ignored the boy's outburst and studied Risca for a moment. He then nodded approvingly. "And what does math have to do with your training out in the field? Anyone?" He asked, leaving the question open for another student to answer. When no one took up the cue, not even the boy trying to stir up trouble, he opted to supply the answer for them. "Everything in life can be solved through physics and with the assistance and understanding of basic mathematics. You might not like that answer but it is the truth.

"You'll need to figure out how much pressure to exert in any given circumstance. You might be smaller, or taller, than your opponent. Should that happen you'll need to think fast about when to strike, where to strike and to what degree. Let's say you are on the edge of a fast running stream and your enemy is on the other side. If you want to strike out at them you'll need to judge the distance to know when to prepare for the strike or when to dodge should they strike out at you. Everything, kids," he emphasized, "everything is connected."

"But I thought," one of the older classmates began, "we were just here to learn how to fight." This statement was met by cheers from many of the boys in the class as well as a handful of the girls.

"You will learn to fight," Dr. Steine replied. "But if you can learn from the other classes where combat isn't an active part of the lesson plan, then you will have a fair chance at survival. In your combat training yes, you will be taught how to fight better. Our goal is to teach you how to identify, disarm and survive. Most of you will only come to know the former and never touch upon the latter."

"And kill?" The older boy pressed.

"Not everything is going to be about the kill, Anton," Dr. Steine said. "But yes. While most of you will never have to engage in combat to the death some of you may find yourselves in that situation. I would hope," the doctor added as he looked up and over at Anton, "that you would have learned that by now."

"If I'm going to become an Arma Muerte Supreme," another student piped up, "what would I care about math and history?" He complained.

"And what would you do," the doctor questioned the peevish student, "if your partner is fresh from the academy and, like you, failed to ingest the lessons we provide here beyond the combat training?"

Still feeling sure of himself, he replied with confidence. "Use their face for target practice and make them rue the day!"

Some of the students sitting next to him offered high-fives and cheered him on. Dr. Steine left the lectern and came around to stand in front of the section where the teen was receiving his adulation. "And if that is all you have to offer then you will most definitely be the one whose face is used as target practice," he stated in his simple, monotone voice.

"No way!" The boy argued. "I'm too good! I'm the best and I'm going to be better! Ain't nobody getting near my face without losing a finger… or two…"

"Or three!" The earlier troublemaker chimed in.

"I just want to fight!" The boy declared, not seeing the illogic.

"Then go into the city and see how far that will get you on any street corner."

"Is that a challenge?" He asked hopefully.

From next to him his buddy's face became skewed. Quickly he turned to his friend and whispered into his ear. Realization struck the boy as he listened to his friend. "Hey! Wait!" He called back to the teacher. "Fighting isn't allowed inside the city limits!"

The professor smiled back at him. "Then your first assignment, class, courtesy of Reece here, is to write a paper outlining that Article and either defending or protesting it."

Louder protests swelled the classroom as the students realized they had an assignment that they weren't expecting or looking forward to. In her notebook, Risca wrote down the assignment and began to make notes about references that she could research.

A look of confusion flashed across Reece's face. "Wait... what?" He asked uncertainly, hoping that he'd heard wrong and the teacher was not calling him out as the reason for the classes workload.

"As I said earlier," Dr. Steine repeated as he walked back to the lectern, "you might not want to appreciate these types of classes, but you will take them. Or you will be expelled. Each class," he went on once the threat of expulsion settled over the room, "has its merits. To become the force of reckoning that you'd like to be viewed as, Reece," Dr. Steine addressed the sulking boy, "you must first have all the tools necessary at your disposal. If Histories and Lessons is vital enough for me to be teaching then it is vital enough for all of you to be present for. Including you. Do we have an understanding?"

From the throng of pupils the bellyaching continued, but Dr. Steine knew that the point had been made. He turned back to the black board, paused, and then returned his attention to the classroom. "Now that we're ready to begin our first lesson I have a question for you. Who here can tell me the two classes of pupils that are taught here at the SLM?"


End file.
